


Rivals

by bethepuck



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 19:46:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2594120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethepuck/pseuds/bethepuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After El Clasico, Leo feels broken and receives some unexpected comfort from a rival wearing white.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rivals

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry it took me so long to write another Cris/Leo fic, I needed some inspiration! And I just really love this pairing they're so perfect together.
> 
> My tumblr is: http://messcri.tumblr.com  
> I post all Leo Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, Madrid, and Barcelona.

Inhaling deeply, the scent of freshly-cut grass and paint fills the air. Leo stands on the pitch, the voices of the fans of both teams alike, vibrate beneath his skin. It’s time, El Clasico is here after months of waiting. The grass has never looked greener, a blessing, an omen the sprigs are as they smile up at Leo. The evening is setting in Madrid, the sun sinking beneath the highest peak of the stadium. They continue to wait. His nerves tingle like a train track vibrating, anticipating the freight to pass. A soft Spanish breeze blows across the arena and Leo turns to Ney on his left adjusting his boot, retying his lace briefly. He shoots him an excited grin. On the other side of painted the white line stands the white-kitted menaces, preparing themselves for the next 90 minutes.

Leo has been preparing for this day for months, craving for the pride and glory he will feel after beating Real on their home turf. The stakes are raised this time, for Leo is well aware of the amount of goals he needs to pass the scoring record and how fitting would it be if he accomplished such a feat in enemy territory?

Leo scans the faces among the field and crowd, and there is one amongst the rest, one who has seen so many times before. A tan, handsome face, piercing eyes filled with determination, lips forming a thin, disapproving line as if he were not satisfied with the grass quality or the completely clear sky or even the fit of his jersey. Leo was able to avoid Cristiano when they shook hands not ten minutes ago, was able to look right passed him and keep walking on. Yet this time, Cristiano seems to know when to look over, when to catch Leo’s gaze. His frown deepens and he looks almost angry. Leo is the first to look away when the whistle blows.

 

Barça strikes first.

 

It’s Ney, but for all it’s worth, Leo started up the whole play. Suarez trailed a pass over the Madrid defenders right to Ney’s feet who accepted the ball graciously, feet moving languidly and easily on the grass, cutting to the middle and finding space. It was a nice goal. Leo finds himself chasing after Neymar, running to him and hugging him, grinning with lively eyes as if the game was won right then and there, 4 minutes in. Amidst the celebration, Leo sees him. It’s anger, red hot flashes of pure, molten hatred that Ronaldo displays, eyes dark and unforgiving. At this very moment their rivalry seems so apparent. Leo averts his eyes once more, jogging back to his starting position for the play will start up again soon.

The game goes on. Madrid dominates the ball most of the time and Leo can only watch as the Barçadefense is tested time after time. The fans grow restless after over twenty minutes of no scoring. Neymar was the last to strike, but that was before the game had practically even begun. The Madridistas have woken up now and their whole city has woken up with them. Voices chant and whistle and call and the stadium is filled with foreign noises that aren’t encouraging. The splash of burgundy that is Barcelona stands very alone against the sea of white. Leo hasn’t touched the ball in a while, he feels unimportant, useless, and very much like every other player on the field and not the difference maker that he normally assumes.

His mind is elsewhere when down at the other end, a white jersey rushes the box and Pique, thinking to do the right thing, drops to block the shot. The ball catches his hand or his shoulder, Leo can’t discern which, and the crowd cheers. Penalty shot for sure. There is brief conversation before Cristiano Ronaldo makes himself visible to take the shot. Leo bites his lip, watching as Ronaldo picks his corner and scores the equalizer. It looks simple, easy, effortless. And then Ronaldo is celebrating among his teammates mouth curved into that confident, cocky Cristiano Ronaldo smile that Leo despises. The grin that he wears at all the awards ceremonies they both end up at. The smile that he greets people with charmingly. And the smile that now beams in all its brilliance from down the pitch directly at Lionel, sending a shiver down his spine. And Messi knows that that can’t be a good thing.

After that, everything seems to sink. The passes always end in turnovers and the ball never gets to the net. Madrid’s rushes are frequent and successful. Two more goals follow Ronaldo’s example, a 3-1 game. Leo feels the defeat before it has even come. He sees Cristiano more and more as time dwindles. He hates that. He hates him. He hates losing. Everything seems unfair. Leo was supposed to win, he was supposed to score, he was supposed to tie and break the scoring record, losing wasn’t a part of the playbook. Leo barely touched the ball, he barely made a difference, he was unimportant and unnoticed. He was a nobody. He was always smaller than everyone else, forgotten constantly, until he made himself into a somebody, into a legend who demands to be noticed and respected. And tonight, tonight he feels like a nobody again.

Losing El Clasico brings back the unimportance from all those years ago, and so, when the final whistle blows and the crowd erupts and the Madrid players run to each other and celebrate, Leo gets off the field in an instance, the voices louder than ever, loud enough to wake the world. His cleats hit the polished tunnel floor soundlessly. He walks alone to the locker room, soon to be followed by his teammates. The match floods through his mind in flashes, when he missed that shot and should have passed it a second earlier and lost the ball to the defender. Disappointment with himself is all he feels, his team played well, they fought hard, Leo sees that he was the only player who could have fought harder. Everything feels dark and cold. He knows that there will be another match, another El Clasico, but for now there is just this, this loss. Leo must be strong for his teammates and he fights through his own unsettled thoughts, pushing them out of his mind for another time when he is alone again, for his teammates have begun to file into the locker room one by one, wordlessly.

And when everyone is there, when the locker room is full, Leo can’t help but feel empty.

He takes his time, sitting in his locker fully clothed, occasionally talking to a teammate, boosting them because Lionel is supposed to be a leader, he _has_ to be a leader. Everyone is always telling him to be, because of his skill and finesse it is part of his job to pick everyone up even when he is farther down than the rest. By the time he showers, it’s only Neymar and him left, the rest of their teammates already on the bus, not saying but a few empty words. He’s buttoning his shirt, reminding Ney that he did well, that he worked hard, but Neymar smiles sadly and walks out, leaving Leo alone.

Soon after Ney leaves, Leo exits out the back with the intention to walk around the outside of the arena and circle to the front. His footsteps are the only sound to be heard across the parking lot. Stars seem distant and the moon glows eerily all by it’s lonesome. Messi walks in the shadow that the immense building casts, the chilly fall air biting at his cheeks. He feels lost, no one to understand him. The disappointment he feels is inexpressible, an entity that his teammates will never be able to relate to. He’s Lionel Messi, the best player in the world, and tonight he was Lionel Messi, the most average player on the pitch.

His thoughts are interrupted by the presence of another human being, tossing their arm around his shoulder, feet walking in step with his. Ronaldo. He grins, eyes crinkling at the edges, looking down at the shorter man.

“What are you doing here?” Leo asks tiredly, attempting to shrug Ronaldo’s arm from his shoulders.

“The question is what are _you_ doing here, my friend?” Cris keeps his arm planted and even brings Messi closer to him for a sort of awkward side hug.

“Shouldn’t you be out celebrating?” Leo sighs, running a lazy hand through his dark hair.

“And shouldn’t you be with your team?” Cristiano replies coolly.

Leo refuses to reply to him. He doesn’t owe him anything. They’re not friends, not even acquaintances, they’re so far from anything like that. Their rivalry has been going on ever since they emerged as the top talents of football.

“You can’t just ignore me,” Cris says with a hint of impatience.

He can’t stand to be not noticed. Always has to be the center of attention. At every awards ceremony, he always has to be with people, and always is talking and drinking. Leo can’t stand it. He’d rather be with a few close teammates than a crowd of people he barely knows. At the last Ballon d’Or ceremony, Cristiano had requested Leo’s presence at the bar, after Cris had won his award, in order to celebrate, and Leo hid in the bathroom for an hour until he could safely sneak out. Leo had assumed at first that Ronaldo didn’t really care whether or not Leo would actually show up, that is until he passed by the bar on his way out. Leo assumed it would be Cristiano and at least thirty other people, all blindly intoxicated, laughing and talking over each other unnecessarily loudly. Instead, he found a lone Cristiano Ronaldo sitting by himself at the bar, his golden trophy to his left, three empty champagne glasses all in a line directly in front of him, and a full champagne glass to his right in front of an empty bar stool. Leo paused for a moment, long enough to take in the scene, and then made his way to the nearest exit.

“Fine, you can ignore me, “ Ronaldo continues, “But consider this, how about we hang out for a little bit, we can talk, maybe be something more than rivals by the end of it.”

“What makes you think that I’d want that?” Messi snaps.

“Oooh it talks,” Cristiano mocks, “And how would you know if you won’t even give me a chance?”

“Because I don’t like you,” Leo replies coldly, walking faster now, turning the corner fast.

The Barca bus awaits him, it’s within grasp, standing tall beneath the parking lot lights. There are no fans left and the bus is the only occupant aside from a few scattered cars from drunken fans too plastered to drive home. Cristiano grabs Messi’s arm before he can step under the lights where he would be clearly seen. He pulls Leo back into the darkness.

“It will be fun,” Is Cristiano’s case.

“You know what else is fun? Going back to the hotel to sleep. I enjoy that instead of sneaking around with a Blanco like you,” Messi spits out between gritted teeth.

“I know what you’re thinking, you think that you don’t deserve to be happy after playing so badly. That you don’t deserve a reward for not scoring or making a difference. I know how you feel,” Cris places a firm hand on Leo’s shoulder.

He just stares at it. “How am I rewarding myself by spending time with _you_? I don’t like you,” Leo looks to the bus again.

“C’mon Leo, just one night. One night and then you can hate me all over again,” Cristiano actually sounds like he’s begging now, his grin long gone, a genuine pleading expression replaces it.

Leo sighs once more. “One night,” he repeats, pulling out his phone, shooting Xavi a text saying that he’s spending time with family friends and he’ll be back by morning for the flight home.

Cristiano says nothing, just grins as the two walk side-by-side back toward Cristiano’s car.

On the ride to Cristiano’s house, Leo says little. Immediately, Cris comments on the shorter man’s haircut, ruffling it gratuitously. Lionel glares out the window as the houses and buildings pass by, enjoying his situation no more than he thinks he should be. The car, a black Lamborghini, stops in front of a tall, white mansion that is Cristiano’s home. The driveway is all pale burgundy brick with a fountain in the middle acting as a traffic cone for the driveway roundabout. The entire estate is surrounded by a black rod-iron gate. Cristiano gets out and makes his way up the front steps, expecting Leo, who is still staring at the fountain, to follow him.

Without turning around, Cristiano snaps his fingers, “You can swim in it later, get inside before the neighbors spot you and start throwing eggs.”

Practically tripping over his own feet, Leo recovers and makes his way up the steps behind Cristiano. Inside, Lionel immediately notices how richly furnished the front hall is. A massive white-carpeted staircase sways from the grand hallway to the second, third, and fourth floors. Considering Cristiano only lives with his wife and son, he doesn’t understand why he needs such a large house.

“This way,” Cristiano motions to the kitchen.

It’s an open kitchen, with wooden floors and a countertop in the middle. The lighting is rather dim and the ceiling is rather low, compared to the rest of the house that Messi has seen so far, but aside from that, it looks cozy and worn in.

“Would you like a drink?” Cristiano asks, shucking his suit and tossing it over the back of a chair before ducking behind the counter and producing a bottle of wine.

“Oh, um, water is just fine thanks,” Leo says quietly.

“C’mon, tonight is a night of celebration, just try a glass,” Cristiano replies, grabbing two glasses from a cabinet behind him.

“For you, maybe,” Leo mumbles sadly.

“None of that, tonight we celebrate together as companions not separately as opponents. Tonight, we are teammates,” Cristiano pours Lionel a glass despite the glares the shorter man sends from across the room at the word “teammates” as he removes his shoes.

Awkwardly, Messi realizes he doesn’t know what to say or do. He doesn’t really know why he even decided to come. Why would he ever want to spend time with Cristiano? He’s the type of douche who wears sunglasses inside and gets all the girls at clubs to drink body shots off his abs.

“Leo,” Cristiano begins, catching him off guard and blushing, pushing the body shot idea out of his mind quickly, “come sit down.”

Messi shuffles forward and sits down on the closest stool. He stares emptily at the wine within the glass, so dark and pungent, and has no intention to put it in his mouth. Cristiano sips his own drink thoughtfully, eyes locked on Messi’s motionless frame. His gaze makes Leo uncomfortable, so the shorter man looks elsewhere around the kitchen. Cabinets are filled with fancy cups and plates of different shapes, colors, and sizes for every occasion. A flatscreen TV covers the wall behind him and a fridge looms across from him on the other side. To the right sits a small dining room table where the family presumably eats their meals together. A sliding glass door leading to the outside displays the dark, clear night and a pool lit up by lights. Above the cabinets are various framed jerseys all with the number seven printed clearly on the back.

“Do you like music?” Cris asks staring at his wine glass although suddenly disgusted with its contents, putting it down on the counter distastefully.

“Uh sure,” Leo replies. What a random question and what terrible small talk.

“Good,” Cristiano beams, picking a remote up from off the counter and pressing a button.

Immediately, quiet, yet fast-paced Latin music flows from speakers from every side.

Cristiano grins.

Leo bites his lip. What did he expect, really?

“Drink, Leo,” Cris says pushing the wine glass closer to Leo’s folded hands.

“Why? So you can get me inebriated enough to talk to you? Getting me drunk won’t make us friends,” Leo hisses venomously, pushing the glass back in Ronaldo’s direction.

Cristiano shrugs, “I thought you’d be able to relax after a drink or two.”

He feels a small amount of shame over his harsh response, brushing the smooth surface of the glass with the tips of his fingers experimentally. “I don’t drink,” Leo says.

“Neither do I,” Cris winks, downing the rest of his own glass in one swig.

Leaning forward on his forearms across the counter Cristiano begins the conversation, “Do yourself a favor, Leo, don’t beat yourself up over this.”

“Easy for you to say, you scored,” Leo murmurs, mainly to himself, swirling a single finger around the rim of the glass.

“Leo,” Cris says quietly. Lionel doesn’t look at him, focusing on his glass. “Leo,” he repeats softly, bringing a hand across the counter to tip his chin up to look at him. Messi glares at him with dark, unforgiving eyes in an attempt to take the meaning out of the words Cristiano is about to speak.

“Don’t let that game define you as a player, you’re better than that,” Cristiano says firmly as if he believed it himself. But Leo knows in his heart that Cristiano is only humoring him, that Cristiano doesn’t really care, that this is all an act. He knows the real Cristiano Ronaldo as the smug, arrogant footballer he is on the pitch as he is off the pitch.

The upbeat song flooding from the sound system dissipates and a new song replaces the other fast-paced one. It’s familiar, warm, a song that Neymar and he listen to sometimes on the way to practice. Leo hides his happiness by biting down on his lip, though Cristiano notices how Leo’s eyes light up.

“Does Leo Messi dance?” Cristiano grins. It’s not a cocky grin, it’s rather tentative, almost humble.

Cristiano stands upright, to his full height of 6’1. Leo is about to protest when Cris slides across the counter effortlessly, taking his hand in his and sweeping him off the stool. Lionel is wearing socks. The floor is rather slippery. Unintentionally, he ends up on the other side of the kitchen bracing himself against the small kitchen table.

Ronaldo is right by his side once again, face alight with excitement that Leo fails to share.

“Relax, there’s no one here to see your terrible dancing aside from me,” Cristiano tries to grab a hold of Lionel’s hand again but Leo tugs it away.

“The one person who I don’t want to dance for,” Leo frowns.

“Are those feet able to dance as well off the pitch as they do on the pitch? Vamos, Messi, show me how you move,” Cristiano ignores Lionel’s sore remarks, sending him sliding back to the middle of the kitchen.

The chorus starts, vibrating underneath his skin. The anticipation he feels on the pitch matches the excitement he feels now, standing half balanced, sliding around in his socks in Cristiano Ronaldo’s kitchen. Despite his better judgment, he opts to dance and Cristiano’s face is priceless. When the song ends, so does Leo’s source of enjoyment and he stands with his back against a wall, breathing hard, eying Cristiano, with annoyance, approaching him.

Another song drifts through the speakers softly. The beat is slow and steady and when Cristiano hugs Leo firmly, at first he doesn’t react. He can feel Cristiano’s heartbeat against his chest, can smell his cologne mixed with a hint of peppermint. He buries his face in the shoulder of Cris’ dress shirt, breathing in the scent of detergent. Moments pass and together they sway to the slow beat of the song, Leo resting his head on Cristiano’s shoulder, Cristiano petting a gentle hand through Leo’s hair. They say no words. Occasionally, Cristiano will press a delicate, almost unnoticeable kiss into Leo’s hair, but Leo doesn’t bring it up or protest. The world feels so small, limited only to the kitchen they reside in. The song ends quicker than Leo would have liked.

Silence fills the room. Cristiano draws back ever so slightly to study Leo’s face.

He grins.

“What?” Leo asks defensively.

Cris says nothing, just grins wider.

“What is it?” Leo is almost worried now.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” Cristiano says almost breathlessly.

And that’s when Leo kisses him hard, crushing their mouths together. He grabs two fists full of Cris’ nicely ironed dress shirt in an attempt to pull him a little closer. It’s not pretty, but Leo needs it to be fast and sloppy. Cristiano rucks Leo’s shirt up, raking his nails across Lionel’s back muscles sending shivers down Leo’s spine. Cris corners Leo against the counter, pressing him up against it, bringing their hips together, eliciting a low moan from the shorter man.

“How long have you wanted to do this?” Leo pants out when Cris pauses to lick a thick strip along his pulse point.

“Ever since the end of the Cup, when I watched you lose, I wanted to find you afterwards and fuck you,” Cristiano hisses out as Leo grinds their hips together.

Leo gasps into the crook of Cris’ neck as the taller man grabs his ass through his training pants. Compared to Ronaldo, Messi is well under dressed in a Barca polo and matching pants and worn down training shoes. His hair is tousled and disheveled, lips already kiss swollen, cheeks hot with a pink tint. Cristiano’s pupils are blown, his breath hot on his cheek as he undoes his own belt, foreheads pressed together.

“What about you?” Cristiano glances up from his pants to make close eye contact with the Barca forward.

“What?” Leo asks, not really mentally all there, all his blood has flown from his brain south.

“Have you ever thought about getting fucked by CR7?” Cris grins, stepping out of his pants and kicking them off to the side, running a hand across Leo’s abs.

“After we won the last El Clasico, all I could think about was finding you in the tunnel alone and sucking you off,” Leo’s breath hitches when Cris grabs him through his underwear. He’s already hard and wont last long.

Cris offers to open him up but Leo declines saying, “It’s okay, I want it to hurt a little.” _Just like this loss did_ , he thinks. The bedroom isn’t even an option at this point, it’s the kitchen counter or nothing.

Leo lies on his back, the dim light of the kitchen illuminating Cristiano’s solid frame as he sets himself between Leo’s legs. His cock is hard against his belly, leaking precome. Cris strokes himself a few times before he presses in slowly, watching Leo’s face watching his the whole time. Cristiano begins slowly until Leo grows impatient pushing against Cris’ cock, fucking himself on it. In response, Cristiano holds Lionel’s hips firmly, strong enough to bruise, to leave marks that will last a few days, that will raise questions in the locker room and in the showers to what Leo Messi really was doing away from the hotel that night in Madrid. The whole idea of it has Leo moaning and begging for more.

Cris leans forward, pace quickening, locking their lips, tangling their tongues together to silence Leo’s gasps and moans. Dull fingernails dig into Cristiano’s back muscles marks of gratification and expression.

Without warning, Messi bites down on Cris’ bottom lip and pleasure spreads from pain, Ronaldo exhaling a very desperate _“Leo,”_ and the lust in his eyes, the way he says Leo’s name has him coming, stroking himself through his orgasm in time with Cristiano’s thrusts. White hot pleasure has him seeing stars behind his eyelids when he squeezes them tight and only disappears when Cristiano pulls out to come on Leo’s stomach.

Afterward, they lie side by side, half collapsed on each other, breathing hard Cristiano’s arm tossed across Leo protectively, the dim light highlighting the sweat glistening on their bodies alike. The pain of the match is a distant memory, the only thing that seems real are their heartbeats in synch and pounding like the constant knock at a door. Eventually, they clean themselves off and make their way up the large staircase, gathering articles of clothing in their arms in the process, pulling on boxers reluctantly. The bed that Cristiano shares with his wife, Irina, is massive to say the least, covered with an even larger white with gold trim comforter imported from somewhere fancy probably.

The master bedroom has ridiculously ornamental furniture, a hot tub, and a huge flatscreen. The carpet is soft beneath Leo’s bare feet as he drags himself to the bed, too tired to do much except roll underneath the covers. Cris follows soon after, permitting the smaller man access to rest his head on his chest. Leo falls asleep peacefully that night, El Clasico forgotten, a thumb dragging across his cheek, through the newly grown in stubble, a calm heartbeat pulsating rhythmically in his ears, and the voice of a past rival whispering, “Goodnight, Leo,” through the darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you guys liked it! Please feel free to leave comments it makes me feel nice about myself ha, I'm most definitely going to be writing more of this pairing soon. :)


End file.
